Like The Son I Might Have Known
by Fumm95
Summary: Duncan's recruitment of Alistair to the Grey Wardens. (Companion fic to "Bring Him Home.")


**A/N: The companion story to Bring Him Home, expanding more on Alistair's recruitment to the Wardens.**

 **Originally posted on tumblr and also found on AO3.**

* * *

Duncan had agreed to stop by the tourney held in his honor for only a few hours, to acknowledge the respect paid towards the Grey Wardens by the Chantry, and possibly to determine if any of the templars were appropriate to recruit. He had expected the templars to recruit several youngsters who had potential as Wardens.

He had _not_ expected to spy a young templar recruit that looked similar enough to the King of Ferelden, whose side he had only left a few short weeks earlier, to cause him to stop and look again more carefully. Sure enough, though the hair was different - messily short and red rather than elaborately long and golden - the rest of the young man, from his build to his strong nose, spoke clearly of a close connection to the Theirin bloodline.

The last he had heard of Maric's child - Alistair, he believed the name was - was the agreement that Arl Eamon would act as guardian of the lad and, in spite of his promise to Maric and Fiona, he had acquiesced - his lack of parental skills aside, the life of a Warden was a poor one for a growing child - and then had been too caught up in the hints of the upcoming Blight to check back in on the boy. Joining the templars was not a wholly unexpected decision for young Alistair to make, and Duncan wondered whether he had any of his father's natural skill with a sword, relaxing a little at the healthy appearance of the young man.

And yet… He did not stand with the rest of the recruits, watching those participating in the tourney warm up with rapt attention. He slumped, one hand resting on his sword, as he waited by the training dummies, his countenance set with a resigned frown that seemed habitually etched onto his face.

The expression was replaced with a look of two parts exasperation and one part apprehension when one of the Chantry Sisters approached the boy, her voice strident enough to hear even across the distance separating him from the pair. "Alistair!"

Duncan did not realize he had frozen, staring at Maric's son, until both returned his gaze momentarily before resuming their one-sided conversation. He remained watching as she led the recruit away, still scolding, though quietly enough that he could no longer make out the words.

After a few more seconds, he too redirected his attention toward the upcoming duels, though his mind still drifted to the recruit and the deep longing he saw on the boy's face when their eyes met.

It should not have been a surprise to see that the only recruit bold enough to participate in the tourney was the young man, especially given the disapproving looks the Chantry members directed in his general direction. The recruit in question ignored the silent reproach with an ease that spoke of years of practice, and Duncan wondered just how long he had spent with them. Surely not so many years? He was only about 20, if he recalled correctly. Even eager recruits didn't start any earlier than 12 or 13, and the boy seemed far from enthusiastic.

When the bouts started, Duncan's attention was caught once more by the lad. His form was decent and movements natural, as he might have expected from a son of Maric, but his skill bespoke of only recent training, not the years of practice he would have received at Denerim, _should_ have received from Arl Eamon. Yet, his focus was more on his attitude. In the ring, facing an opponent with swords drawn, his face was alight, animated, a grin curving lips that sorely needed to smile more.

And he was good. Not the best, not by far compared to the likes of Ser Talrew and Ser Kalvin, but to even hold his own against templars known throughout Ferelden for as long as he did was an incredible achievement. More telling was his response to each duel: humble after each victory, of which there were more than a few, and cheerful after each defeat, accepting advice and good-natured ribbing with a sheepish grin.

Making up his mind, still remember the longing look on the boy's face, Duncan waited until the final bout finished, thanked the Grand Cleric and Knight-Divine for organizing the affair, then left in search of the recruit.

The sound of shrill berating directed him to the young man, bearing the lecture with a sullen look on his face. The boy's expression brightened slightly as Duncan moved into his line of sight, enough so that the evidently irritated Mother paused in her tirade and turned to spy him, mouth pinched with displeasure.

"We shall continue this discussion later," she informed the lad in clipped tones. He watched with amusement as the boy pulled a face at her retreating back, then flushed sheepishly at his raised brow.

Up close, the young man's resemblance to the royal family was even more apparent. Maric's brown eyes examined him with curiosity while the mischievous quirk of his lips brought back memories of a younger, impish Prince Cailan. Yet, his visage lacked the warmth of contentedness, his eyes dark with loneliness, and he wondered again at his past. Arl Eamon had agreed to raise him until he was old enough to make his own decisions, but it did not explain the not-quite-hidden misery which lurked around the boy like a silent, long-time companion.

His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet voice. "Are you-" The boy faltered, noticing his inattention, and trailed off almost apologetically, as though accustomed to being ignored. Duncan gave him an encouraging smile, reminiscent of the ones he had given the half-brother when he'd first met the young prince, so many years ago. Maker, what was his childhood like, to turn such a boisterous personality to quiet insecurity?

Guilt gnawed at his conscience, reminding him of the promise made years ago, of how completely lacking in knowledge he was about the younger son's past. And yet, there was a bright glint in the boy's eyes, shining with something akin to hero-worship, as he asked," Are you really the Commander of the Grey Wardens?"

The affirmation seemed to set the recruit a little more at ease, face alight with enthusiasm, and Duncan could sense natural curiosity warring with learned reticence, noticing again the yearning on the young face.

When caution won out, he hesitated, then added, "And I am looking for those with potential to join our ranks."

The boy's head jerked up to look at him, fierce hope glinting in his eyes, even as surprise crossed his features. After a short silence, he spoke wonderingly. "Me?"

Duncan paused, wondering if his impulsive decision was truly reasonable. Staying with the templars would be much safer; to be a Warden, he would have to undergo the Joining, which was never a guarantee to begin with, and then be subjected to the poison in his blood for life. "If you wish it," he hedged at last.

"Yes!" was the instantaneous reply, and he blinked at the vehement response. How much did he actually know about the Grey Wardens and the depths of their commitment?

"You would have to leave the Chantry," he warned, watching the young man intently. "All Wardens leave behind our previous lives when we agree to join."

For a minute, the boy's face twisted into something dry, bitter, but his voice was surprisingly steady. "I understand, ser."

Duncan nodded. "Then we should speak with the Grand Cleric, then meet with the other wardens for your Joining." He walked back towards the crowd around the tournament grounds with the recruit tagging along beside him.

After several moments, he spoke again. "You fight well. When did you begin learning?"

He received an overly casual shrug in response. "Not until I was sent to the Chantry, so maybe nine years ago? I had plenty of practice with sticks and mabaris before that, though."

Frowning, Duncan glanced at him again. The words were spoken lightly, yet there was a current of hurt underlying his tone, hidden beneath the humor in his voice. "Eamon sent you away so early?"

Sharp eyes examined him at the mention of the Arl. "Arlessa Isolde never liked me," he answered at last, his voice pitched low enough that nobody around them could overhear. "She seemed to think that I was Eamon's bastard child." The boy broke off with a grimace and Duncan nodded slowly, wondering how much he knew about his parentage.

"What about other children?" he prompted quietly.

The sound he received in reply could have been a snort had it not been so harsh. "Only visiting nobles around Castle Redcliffe and Connor once he was born." The word seemed to flood out of him, as if they had been held back for so long that it was impossible to stem the flow once they started. "Isolde didn't trust me around her son and to the others, I didn't exist." His bark of laughter was void of humor. "They wouldn't have wanted to associate with a bastard son anyway, not even a roy-" He cut himself off abruptly, suddenly avoiding Duncan's eyes.

"I know," he said quietly. "I knew your p-" he hesitated, recalling Fiona's emphatic request that her son not know his elven heritage, "your father, Alistair Theirin."

If he had not been watching carefully, he would have missed the boy's slight recoil at the name, but it was impossible to miss the suspicion and slight waver in his voice when he asked, "Is that why you would let me join the Grey Wardens? Because of a connection to a title that I don't have, that I never wanted?"

"No," Duncan responded instantly, surprising even himself with his vehemence, but it was true. And more importantly, he wanted Alistair to know it was true, to know that not everybody in his life would judge him by his parentage. That he could be, that he was more than the factors he had no control over. His gaze softened slightly as he repeated, "No. It may have been the Theirin bloodline that I saw first," he caught the small twitch the boy gave at the phrase but pressed on firmly, " but it was Alistair's desire to join that caught my attention. Your desire, and your character, things that are not defined by your lineage."

But that was not all, he realized as Alistair gave him a shy, sincere smile and pointed out the Grand Cleric's location, both of them thankful for the change of topic. Even more noticeable, more striking, was the loneliness, the misery that had been so apparent in his every action, that had lifted at the first hope of another life.

Yet, even with the boy's eagerness, obtaining permission to recruit him to the Grey Wardens was a tricky affair. The Grand Cleric was extremely reluctant to allow him to leave, though there was no love lost between the two. In the end, conscripting the young man left no further avenues of complaint, though Duncan was fairly certain it would cause tension between the Chantry and the Wardens in the future, tensions that, with a Blight on the horizon and such small numbers, they could ill-afford.

Alistair's joyous smile when his recruitment became official, when he was told to gather his possessions and say his final farewells, seemed to make it all worth the effort, however. He watched the boy walk off with a new spring to his step and could not suppress the sudden wave of affection he felt.

And in that moment, he realized two things. Firstly, that both Fiona and Maric, if he was still alive, would likely never forgive him for conscripting Alistair into the Grey Wardens, for needlessly contaminating their son with the Blight. And secondly, as he watched the boy race ahead with a bright laugh and a brighter expression, already asking endless questions and speaking more than he had all day, that he would never regret his decision. Not if it meant Alistair's freedom.


End file.
